


started out with a kiss (how did it end up like this)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Star Wars RPF
Genre: Domhnall is really mean, F/M, I am a trashbag, M/M, Multi, Oscar & Domhnall: friends with benefits, Oscar Isaac hurts so pretty, Pining, also the tag Poe Dameron hurts so pretty, and also weirdly comforting, just like terribly mean, this was driven by too much fury about Oscar Isaac's perfect fucking face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:22:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6562564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem starts when Oscar realizes he's not lying.</p><p>Sometimes he does this. Sometimes the easiest way to make people believe he's joking, when there's a story he doesn't want everyone to know, is to tell the truth, very earnestly, and then grin just a little, coy and teasing and very clearly winding everyone up. </p><p>"Oh," he says, "I mean, <em>I</em> was playing romance," and bites his lip, knows his eyes are shining with it. Everyone laughs on cue, and Oscar sits back in his chair, and thinks, <em>fuck.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	started out with a kiss (how did it end up like this)

**Author's Note:**

> With much, much love to @coffeeinallcaps, who let me bounce pieces of this off her constantly and responded with !!!!!!! and !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and MAKE HIM CRY ABOUT IT, and also to @deputychairman, who got me on this road in the first place and advised that it should contain as much pine as a forest.

The problem starts when Oscar realizes he's not lying.

Sometimes he does this. Sometimes the easiest way to make people believe he's joking, when there's a story he doesn't want everyone to know, is to tell the truth, very earnestly, and then grin just a little, coy and teasing and very clearly winding everyone up. 

"Oh," he says, "I mean,  _I_ was playing romance," and bites his lip, knows his eyes are shining with it. Everyone laughs on cue, and Oscar sits back in his chair, and thinks,  _fuck_.

 

"What's the deal with you and the beautiful children?" Domhnall demands in an undertone the next afternoon, while they're waiting for their press interview in whatever city it is that they're in now. "And don't lie, I know what your face looks like when you're lying."

"What- I- there's  _no deal_ with me, what the  _fuck_ , man," Oscar says, and Domhnall looks at him for a moment before laughing in a way that is terribly, unfairly mean.

"You've got to stop falling in love with your co-stars," he tells him, "honestly, Oscar, it's embarrassing."

"I don't fall in love with my co-stars," Oscar says automatically, and Domhnall snorts.

"Yeah, okay. Hey, what are you doing after this?"

"Sleeping, probably. Room service. Very exciting stuff. Why?" Domhnall just raises an eyebrow, subtle enough to not be caught by any of the cameras, and Oscar nods, carefully doesn't look at how John and Daisy are leaning in against each other, finishing each other's sentences and smiling identical and terribly beautiful smiles. The problem is Domhnall's been his friend for long enough that he  _does_ know what Oscar's face does when he's lying, and if he's picked up on whatever crush Oscar has simmering under the surface, it's probably something that's going to turn into a problem at some point.

He squashes it down, falls into bed with Domhnall as soon as he shows up in Oscar's hotel room that evening, and in the press of skin against hot skin, the drag of Domhnall's stubble against his mouth, he almost thinks he can forget about it. They've been doing this since they filmed  _Ex Machina_ , and whatever chemistry it is that gives Oscar such terribly inconvenient feelings for his co-stars, his habit of falling in love with people who're absolutely out of reach, it hasn't happened with Domhnall but that doesn't mean this isn't  _good_ , at least in terms of the fucking.

Perhaps it's just that Domhnall's really, really mean, Oscar thinks, because as soon as they're done, while Oscar's still dealing with the condom, for _fuck's sake_ , Domhnall's propping himself up on his elbows and asking, very matter of fact, "So, how long has this terrible crush been going on, and don't say it hasn't because I'm not  _blind_ , mate."

"You're the worst," Oscar informs him flatly, "the absolute worst, I cannot believe I  _sleep with you_ , Jesus  _Christ_ ," and Domhnall just cackles for way too long before wrestling Oscar down and leaving a bite mark right on the hollow of his throat, obvious enough that Oscar is forced to wear his shirt collar buttoned up the next day.

 

If Oscar is being honest with himself (neverwith Domhnall, because he wants to avoid the  _merciless teasing_ that will be the rest of his life, thank you) it was John he fell for first. 

Of course it was, he thinks, like,  _of course_ it was, he was filming with John for weeks and never one-on-one with Daisy, and John was  _John_ , and there's  _that scene_ , the one that as soon as the film is released the internet loses its collective shit over. Oscar was well fucked even before they ever went to release. John is earnest and gorgeous and heartbreakingly funny, and without even realizing it Oscar just sways toward him whichever setting they're in, which on the interminable press junket they've been trapped in is an endless fucking torment. 

John in premieres and red-carpet events is even worse than the regular version, because he wears outrageous suits which fit him like an absolute fucking glove, all rich metallic fabric in colors that should look ridiculous and instead just make him even more terribly beautiful than usual. He knows how to smile for the cameras like he was born to it, drags Oscar in for photos and touches him easy and casual and almost proprietary, his fingers pressed against Oscar's hip or shoulder or the small of his back. Oscar watches John charm literally everyone he meets, and it only makes it worse.

He's so busy switching between pushing down and nurturing this crush that when it happens  _again_ with Daisy he's not expecting it in the least. She's just as charming as John, all wide smiles and sweet ingenue surprise at this new fame they're finding themselves in, and it's only when Oscar watches the film that he sees Daisy's sharp wolf teeth and prowling fierceness that literally,  _literally_ make him come up in shivering goosebumps at the thought of it all. Once he looks harder, the way Daisy takes control without seeming to is something that curls heat inside him just at the thought, and he's briefly very awkward, clumsy-tongued and uncomfortable at how old he is and how  _young_ they are.

Daisy doesn't tolerate that, of course, just cheerfully bullies him into adorable publicity work, and when she overhears him singing under his breath one night, her eyes light up in a way that Oscar should really be suspicious of. Instead he finds himself singing a duet with her, holding  _hands_ Jesus  _Christ_ and harmonizing easily. If it comes to it Oscar knows how to be charming too, has it down to an art, and plays it enough that Daisy's breathless with laughter by the end. Everything's so sweet he can't stand it, but he wants at the same time, really does, wants to kiss her hand like he's a silent film star or maybe just dip her back in her chair and kiss her harder until she's breathless again.

"I fell a _tiny bit_ in love with him," she jokes in the next interview, tilts her head, cracks a high-beam smile. Oscar sits forward where he's watching, wonders if she's really joking or putting on the charm or whether this is the same trick he uses, telling the truth as a cover measure. Probably the former. He's charming, he knows, but most people don't tend to fall in love with their co-stars quite as easily as he does.

They're always together, Oscar and Daisy and John, the new trio of this reboot like Carrie and Harrison and Mark were the first time around, and he doesn't know how Daisy and John do it because where he gets cranky and sleep-deprived, gives interviews while lying exhausted on a couch and trying desperately to string three words together, they are bouncing with cheerful energy, always fresh as, well, the proverbial flower. It's probably because they're basically teenagers, Oscar thinks, and then feels incredibly terrible just at the thought, because yeah, they  _are_ basically teenagers and he is way too fucking old for this entire thing.

Except.  _Except_. The next event, he thinks they're in Shanghai, perhaps, or Seoul, he's lost count of the cities, and they're all watching BB-8 interact like it's a real character (it is,  _seriously_ , it's enough that even Oscar feels kind of enchanted every time he sees it roll past) and Daisy slides herself around him, wraps her arm around his waist, and he just strokes his fingers down the line of her bare arm without thinking twice. It's a gesture he feels as soon as it happens, the electric spark of absolute blinding attraction, and oh,  _oh_ , Oscar is seriously fucked because this is how it starts every time.

 

John on his own and Daisy on her own are formidable but together, god, they're something else, melting reporters into giddy laughter right along with them. Perhaps it's the English accents; Oscar likes the lilt of it well enough but on most Americans, Daisy's crispness and John's London consonants seems to get them utterly undone. Anyway, they stick together even more closely as the tour grinds on, all pet names and meaningful shared looks and the kind of casual physical contact that Oscar should absolutely fucking recognize from how he and Domhnall were on the _Ex Machina_ press circuit.

He doesn't. He doesn't see it at all, until one morning they're all lined up at a panel interview and John shuffles in late, slides into his seat with a carefully casual sheepish grin.

"Sorry," he laughs, leaning in to the mic, "slept in, yeah," and the reporters laugh right along with him because John is so very fucking charismatic it's  _painful_.

John's all attention at first, wide eyes earnest and interested like this is the first interview they've had in months, not the five hundredth, but when Adam fields the next question, Oscar catches John leaning back in his chair, making a face at Daisy. He looks the other way, careful to make it offhand, and Daisy tilts her chair back, gives John an exaggerated wink. It's funny and sweet, just the way Daisy is  _always_ funny and sweet, but Oscar's close enough to see John blush, and he puts two and two together and comes out with  _of course I'm falling for people who are falling right for each other, that is frankly_ _typical, now could I please silently lie down and die until I get over this terribly inconvenient crush._

 

He calls Domhnall when he's back in LA and Domhnall's on a flying visit home, since the adjustment from being around other people _all the damn time_ to being alone, suddenly, is incredibly jarring and he's basically too chickenshit to call John or Daisy for company via international calling charges. The line buzzes a little with the silence between them, but Domhnall's learned to wait Oscar out in a way that is honestly infuriating.

"I think John and Daisy are..."

"Fucking?"

" _Dating_ ," Oscar says, "Jesus  _Christ_ , Gleeson, must you be so relentlessly filthy about everything?"

"We're actors, mate," Domhnall sighs like it's obvious, "we don't date like normal people. Anyway, how do you feel about that?"

"I... _fine_. I feel fine. Why would I feel any kind of way about it?"

"Well," Domhnall points out, with infinite patience in his voice, "it's interesting Disney gossip, if it's true, but I don't know that it merits a late night phone callfrom you to me just to keep me up on the play."

"Perhaps I just wanted to talk to you," Oscar says, takes a final drag on his cigarette and stubs it out, shuffles back in from the hotel balcony and closes the door against the LA wind.

"Perhaps," Domhnall allows. "There's also the thing of how you're desperately in love with your tiny child co-stars."

"You're seriously the worst," Oscar says, and then, "I'm not in love. Desperately or otherwise."

"Which explains why you're chain-smoking cigarettes and calling me at whatever the fuck time it is there to tell me about it, no doubt."

"Why do I even talk to you?" Oscar grumbles, settles back on the couch, tries to find the remote.

"Because you  _love_ me," Domhnall teases, and then there's a long pause before he says, softer, his voice dropping low and dirty, "Hey, you wanna..."

"It's like two in the morning here," Oscar says, but he's palming his cock through his jeans, and Domhnall just laughs like he knows Oscar's already half-hard. He's impressively good at dirty talk, although Oscar would never give him the satisfaction of telling him so, and with the litany of what Domhnall wants to do to him on non-stop husky loop in his ear, it's not long before Oscar's arching up into his hand, biting his lip against a moan that escapes anyway.

"Yeah," Domhnall murmurs, "yeah, Oscar, you gonna come for me?" and Oscar does, a little surprised. Domhnall's not long behind, making a noise that Oscar finds ridiculously hot, and then after another hum of silence down the phone line, Oscar stretches out on the couch, drags the throw up over his legs. 

"Working on anything new?"

"Script sent over t'other day. New Soderbergh project. Not sure, yet."

"You really are the star ascendant," Oscar says lightly. Domhnall snorts.

"Yeah, okay. I'll believe it when I actually get top billing for something. You? No more Highsmith adaptations, your hair's always impressively terrible and there's too many homoerotic daddy issues, what's  _with_ that."

"I don't know, _Carol_ got a good reception."

"They were  _lesbians_ , Oscar, I'm not sure that's in your range," Domhnall teases, and Oscar laughs a little, feels impossibly fond.

"Heard Blomkamp is casting for something soon," he yawns, rubs his eyes with his knuckles and blinks at this sudden sleepiness.

"You'll get typecast," Domhnall says, as if that's an actual concern, and it is, of course it is, but frankly if Oscar can get typecast in robot-heavy science fiction and not Latino Drug Dealer Number Three for the rest of his life, it's absolutely the trade-off he'll take. "You sound tired," Domhnall adds, "I should let you get some rest," and Oscar yawns again,  _is_ tired, suddenly. A blanket of exhaustion coming down heavy over him, all the months of press catching up.

"Yeah," he admits, "yeah, I am, I will, but- thanks, man."

"Hey," Domhnall says, "any time," and Oscar has just enough time to be touched by this uncharacteristic lack of relentless mockery before he's asleep.

 

Domhnall makes up for the slip, of course, in exceedingly short order. Oscar might not have admitted anything but he's definitely shown his cards given how Domhnall can read between the lines with everything Oscar does, and 'Oscar has a crush' is too much for Domhnall to pass up.

 _Mate, got some leaked footage of ep8_ , Domhnall texts him one day, and it's with a gif attached.

 _Fuck off_ , Oscar replies, reflexive, but he watches the gif on loop far too many times. Cosplayers faking out a kiss for the camera, teasingly leaning into each other's space, and Oscar wonders what would happen if he pulled up his as-yet unused twitter account, retweeted it out into the world. Probably Disney would fire him; they've been annoyingly coy about the potential, probably doing furious focus-group analysis to work out the implications of gays in Star Wars. Oscar suspects there'll be baiting, requests for more of those lip bites (and honestly,  _honestly_ , it was an unconscious reaction to John's face, not that he will ever tell a soul this information), a major lack of follow-through. Tumblr outrage, probably, but Oscar steers clear of that place because the lust is frankly overwhelming and more than a little terrifying.

Anyway, it's a good gif. He contemplates texting it on to John but loses his nerve at the last minute, sends something teasing but generic instead, and half an hour later he's got a Snapchat invitation to go hang out as soon as he's back in London for episode 8 read-throughs.

 

They do hang out, more than once, and Oscar learns all over again to be endeared by how John shuffles around his flat in a fleece dressing gown and slippers, how he's constantly filming ridiculously good Snapchat videos and deeply committed to his cat and fundamentally cannot put together Ikea furniture.

After the first read-through, Daisy comes over and they put on the original trilogy, and Oscar thought he'd be completely sick of Star Wars by now, so saturated with it that he needs to escape, but with John watching raptly, pointing out the best bits, it turns out to be the best time he's had in weeks. They slump on the couch like teenagers, John and Daisy tangled together in a way that would make their relationship really fucking obvious if Oscar hadn't figured it out by now, and already Oscar can tell that filming 8 is going to be even more of an experience than the previous one, can feel the exhausted jitteriness in them all.

About halfway through  _Empire_ , John falls asleep, his head leaning back against the couch pillows and snoring very quietly, and Daisy looks up at him, laughs softly, shifts so she's sprawled out between them.

"He's going to be mad he missed it," she sighs, and Oscar shrugs.

"We can rewind it, right?"

"Yeah," she agrees, slides down further until her head's pillowed in his lap. "Pat my hair, okay," she demands, and Oscar has buttery fingers from the Tesco microwave popcorn they've been sharing but Daisy doesn't seem to care so he runs a hand carefully through the strands, wonders how much of this is appropriate in the slightest. Daisy yawns very widely, crinkles up her nose, watches Luke training in Dagobah for a few minutes. Oscar keeps stroking her hair, doesn't want to stop now that he's started, and wonders if he can kick his feet up onto the couch somehow, curl up into a pile with them both.

"We should do that," she says suddenly, "the Yoda thing, it'll be hilarious, you think Mark will be up for it?"

"Jedi training piggybacks?" Oscar asks, and laughs and laughs. "I hope so." Daisy grins, reaches up and touches the corner of his mouth, traces the smile lines.

"Yeah," she says, "yeah, I..." and trails off, falls silent, chews her lip. Oscar kind of can't breathe with her in his lap like this, touching his  _mouth_ , basically, so he just waits, watches the movie and not her face like he wants to, thinks very hard about being an ethical person who is _way too old_ for this all.

"I'm glad you shaved your beard," she mumbles in the end, "I know you had to, for Poe, and all, but I like your face like this the best, you know," and then without warning she's asleep too, curling a hand into his t-shirt and reaching out to John like she can link them both together. Oscar should move, he should leave, he should go home to his short-term flat and let them be, but extricating himself feels very hard, and staying here, warm and drowsy and tangled together, that feels easy.

 _Empire_ is still playing in the background, and maybe Han falls into the carbonite before Oscar's asleep, or maybe he just dreams it, Star Wars in pretty much every aspect of his life and totally inescapable, and the thing is, he doesn't even know if he wants to.

 

 _Come train with me today_ , John texts him a couple of days later, and he goes, because he  _is_ supposed to be training for this fucking film, but god,  _god_ , it turns out to be a mistake.

"Come on, get it, man," he shouts at John, half-teasing and half-serious, and John's too focused and too out-of-breath to laugh so Oscar just keeps it up, a stream of encouragement that gets more and more outrageous, and then he's saying "harder, Boyega, you can get it, I know you can, come on, push it,  _harder_ ," when his brain catches up with what he's saying and he stops abruptly, feels a full-body flush from his toes to the roots of his hair.

He jerks off in the gym bathroom afterwards, up against the locked cubicle door that really offers no privacy at all, and his fingers shake on his dick when he thinks of John, his muscles, his  _shoulders_ , Jesus Christ, and how he gleamed with sweat, his shirt so damp that Oscar could see the dark patches stretching down to the small of his back. He finishes just in time, comes with his teeth sunk into his bottom lip to keep from making a noise, and after he's fumbled with toilet paper, taken a couple of silent deep breaths and stepped back into the locker room, grabbed his towel for a shower, John walks in and gives him a wide grin, clearly buzzing with endorphins.

"Great workout, huh," he says easily, "honestly, though, I think I nearly died toward the end there, you're lucky Rian's not got you on a bulk-up order, I'm so bloody sickof chicken and broccoli." He pulls his shirt off, wipes his face, and Oscar's mouth goes dry at the broad planes of muscle, the way John's sweatpants are toofucking low-slung on his hips.  _I could-_ he thinks before he can help it,  _I could get on my knees right now, suck you off so good you_ would  _die_ , and deliberately turns away, makes a show of looking for something in his duffel bag.

"You alright?" John asks, and then  _oh god_ his hand is on Oscar's shoulder, and when Oscar turns back towards him he is very close, warmth radiating off him. "Your lip's bleeding." Oscar touches his fingers to his mouth, pulls them away bloody, licks his lip and feels the sting.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah, I'm fine." Sucks his bottom lip into his mouth for just a second, watches John's pupils dilate. "Got so distracted by your workout I forgot I was on a treadmill," he jokes, "took a wrong step and bit my own lip, honestly, you're a danger to us all," and John laughs just as Oscar knew he would. Throws his head back and cackles, and Oscar is distracted all over again by the line of his throat.

"Very funny, bruv," John tells him, "keep your eyes to yourself next time and it won't be a problem, yeah?" Oscar pretends to punch him in the ribs, catches bare skin, feels his breath stutter just a little. He can smell John's sweat, wants to lean in and lick it from the curve of his neck.

"You're just too beautiful for this world to handle," he replies, lets his eyes go hooded and sleepy, half-closed, and John laughs again, shoves him in the shoulder and heads for the showers.

It's another lie that's not a lie, and Oscar knows he's fucked, deeply.

 

They move into their trailers for the intensive bit of filming, the bit where they know they're going to do nothing but eat, sleep and breathe the film for the next three months, and weirdly enough Oscar's trailer feels actually kind of comforting, familiar from the last film. He doesn't expect John and Daisy to crash his not-at-all-a-party the first night, but of course he should have, because apparently they have no boundaries around each other anymore.

Oscar supposes this is friendship, and tries to be happy about it, and it's fine, it's going  _fine_ , right up until Daisy sits back on the couch and looks at them both thoughtfully and says, "You know, you two should kiss."

"We-  _what_ ," Oscar replies, looks to John expecting him to be equally confused, and instead John just looks  _amused_ , maybe even like he's been expecting it.

"No, I'm serious," she insists. "What if they decide you  _are_ in a romance arc."

"Then... we'll rehearse it like professionals?" Oscar asks, because apparently he is the only one here who is talking any sense at all.

"But," Daisy says, sighs very dramatically. " _Practising_ makes it perfect."

"Just to make sure I've got this right," Oscar clarifies, "you want me to kiss your boyfriend, for practice, in case Disney have a major U-turn on policy and write us in the very first Star Wars gay romance?"

"Yeah," Daisy agrees sunnily. "Pretty much."

"I..." Oscar says, and cannot think of a single fucking thing to say, and then he catches sight of John's face, and when John  _shrugs_ , as if it's maybe actually a  _good suggestion_ , Oscar has to take a moment for a long breath.

"I didn't think it'd be such a big deal," John says, "I've got it on authority I'm fairly good, actually, mate," and it's the idea that John thinks Oscar  _doesn't want to kiss him_ that makes him say, decisive, " _right_ , that's, I-" and drag John in for a kiss.

"Oh," Daisy breathes after a moment, " _oh_ , see,  _this_ is why it was a good idea," and John grins through the kiss, licks along Oscar's lower lip. "Hey," Daisy adds after another moment, "my turn," and crawls across John so she's balanced in between them on the couch, straddling Oscar's thigh.

"Are you  _serious_ ," Oscar says again, and Daisy just gives him a look, and then her mouth is on his, and Oscar thinks he might actually pass out or something equally embarrassing with how there seems to be no air left in his lungs.

"You need to shave," Daisy says, wrinkling her nose, "you're going to leave marks on my face."

"Sorry," Oscar says, " _sorry_ ," and Daisy drags her fingertips down his jaw, directs his mouth back to hers.

"No, I like it," she murmurs, her lips barely grazing his, and kisses him again, harder this time. It's wet and hot, sharp teeth on his lip making him gasp, and then she slides her fingers back along his jaw, under his ear, into the curls at the nape of his neck. He makes a noise, because  _fuck_ , he loves having his hair played with like this, it's always been a weakness, and Daisy smiles against his mouth and then  _pulls_ , and the noise Oscar makes this time is basically just fucking indecent.

"Do that again," John says, "I think he likes it," and Oscar is dimly outraged and very vaguely aware that he's literally making out with two Disney stars. He's way too old for this, like,  _unethically so_ , but he's also been in love with the both of them for way too long, and when Daisy pulls away, drags him by the hair back to John's mouth so John can kiss him slow and lush and comprehensive, he lets himself sink into it, goes loose-limbed and compliant and kiss-drunk in a way that Daisy very, very obviously likes.

 

He doesn't know how long they spend making out, and fuck, could  _making out_ be any more teenage an expression, but it's so extremely teenage, what it is that they're doing, they're all still fully  _dressed_ and Oscar just lets them push him back into the couch and trade off with kisses that get progressively filthier. And then Daisy is grinding down into his lap, and she's got his wrists pinned against the back of the couch, and John has Oscar by the hair so he can pull his head backwards to let Daisy bite her way down his throat, and Oscar thinks,  _fuck._

He's so hard, he's so _fucking_ hard, and he didn't know what he was expecting but to be taken apart like this by these infants, it's more than a little terrifying. John just keeps kissing him, long and slow, licking unto his mouth and laughing softly whenever Oscar whines in the back of his throat at the way Daisy's pressing herself down against him. John's got his other hand cupped over Daisy's breast, and when he drags his thumb over her nipple she moans against Oscar's skin, sinks her teeth into his collarbone in a sharp blaze of pain, grinds her hips down harder. She's basically riding his dick through his jeans, and the heat and the friction is unbearable, painfully sensitive, and Oscar has never wanted more to let himself keep going like they're going. 

"Oh shit, guys," he says instead, trying desperately to make it sound light and easy and casual instead of totally fucking half-wrecked, "the time, I'd better call it a night." Daisy actually _growls_ , the noise only making it worse because Oscar would really like nothing better than to let her hold him down, to see John's hands on her bare skin instead of through the fabric of her shirt. He blinks, licks his lips, looks away from John's kiss-swollen mouth. He'd fake an emergency phone call if he could, isn't above escaping that way, except it's a bit hard to text someone (Domhnall, being honest, it'd fucking be Domhnall, and he'd  _never let Oscar forget it_ ) given Daisy's still got him pinned, her thumbs pressing relentlessly into the bones of his wrists in a way that's absolutely certain to leave a bruise.

"You don't-?" John asks, and Oscar bites his lip, lets his eyes flutter closed.

"No, it's not that, it's just, you know we're starting filming tomorrow morning and I don't want to be off my game," he lies smoothly, because  _hey look, this is spectacular but a) of all, you are so young, seriously, so gloriously, unfairly fresh-faced, you have no wrinkles at all,_ _how have you not noticed I've got grey hair, honestly and b) of all, this is fun for you but my heart is literally about to shatter in my chest, I'm having so many inconvenient feelings_ is probably not the best thing to lead with.

"Oh!" John says, "oh shit, we are, yeah, that's a good point, mate," and approximately thirty seconds later Oscar is seeing them to the door, both of them pausing for a final lingering kiss that turns into them simultaneously pressing him into the doorframe, hands wandering, and the very real risk of them all starting it up all over again. Except Oscar knows that he wouldn't be able to call time a second round, that this would absolutely end in John and Daisy waking up in his bed the next morning probably still looking as beautiful and fresh as only people under twenty-five know how to, and so he pulls away, laughs a little, shoos them out the door.

 

Pretty much as soon as they're gone he's leaning back against the door he's just shut, heart racing and hair messy like someone's been pulling it for hours (someone _has_ been pulling it for hours, and Oscar misses it fiercely, feels untethered and raw and still so fucking turned on he can barely breathe). His hands shake so much on his fly he can hardly get his pants undone but eventually he shoves them down, wraps his hand around his cock, and god, he's still so hard he literally whimpers as soon as he touches himself. He comes in about three strokes, eyes shut and flashes of light going off behind his eyelashes, and when he can catch his breath, he zips himself back up, wipes his palm on the thigh of his jeans, goes outside for a smoke.

He smokes one cigarette and then two, throat burning with something that's not just the tobacco, and when he lights a third he fumbles with the lighter for way too long, can't get a flame, wonders why his hands are shaking so much, why he feels light-headed and jittery and horribly, embarrassingly sad. He suddenly can't breathe again, feels his chest tight with it, has to drop his head between his knees and count to ten and then to twenty and then to a hundred before he feels his heartbeat slow to less than a frantic judder.

 _Pull yourself together_ , he tells himself sternly, drags himself inside and turns on the shower, water hot enough to scrub John and Daisy from his skin, and god,  _god_ , if he cries a little, just a little, the water washes it all away. 

 _I'm desperately in love with my tiny child co-stars_ , he types out in a text to Domhnall,  _where the fuck do I go from here_ , and stares in the dark at his phone screen for a long moment before deleting it, unsent. Domhnall's maybe the best friend he's got but Oscar knows what the response will be, would absolutely be the response he would send himself, because yeah, Oscar, you are being pathetic, this is ridiculous, it's just a  _crush_ and it was only a kiss, it was just a kiss.

It wasn't just a kiss. He drags his hand over his eyes again, brushes away the tears that definitely aren't there. Lies in bed, the sheets cool against his skin, and tries very hard not to miss the warmth of Daisy's body, the weight of her pressing him down so fucking  _imperious_ as she marked him up like they aren't shooting in the morning. Thinks of John pulling his head back, his fingers tight in Oscar's hair, and has to count to a thousand again before he gives up, chases two sleeping pills with a finger of whisky, falls asleep into dreams of sharp teeth and hot skin.

 

"Oh, mate," Domhnall says when he sees Oscar's face. It's early, _too early_ , and Domhnall's still in ratty pyjamas but Oscar supposes he can't fault him given he himself is in even rattier sweatpants, hunched into a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up as if he can hide from all his mistakes. "That bad?" Oscar makes straight for Domhnall's couch and collapses into it, flings his head back and stares at the ceiling. "By all means," Domhnall says pissily, "come on in, it's not like it's five in the morning, or anything," but Oscar ignores him, shivers a little and hunches further into his sweats.

"There was kissing," he says hollowly. Domhnall squints at him, yanks his collar down. 

"Christ, Oscar, not just kissing, makeup's going to kill you. So, you finally got your end away? I'd be judging you, but you've been pining for so long I'm actually kind of proud."

"No," Oscar says, appalled. "I had to call an end to it, I felt like some unspeakably terrible old man."

"Well, to be _fair_ ," Domhnall says, and then doesn't say whatever terrifically mean thing he was about to say. Whatever Oscar's face is doing, it must be bad. "Congratulations," he says instead, "you're about to film two more movies with them," and pats Oscar sympathetically on the shoulder.

"Perhaps I can still convince Rian to kill me off," Oscar mutters half-hopefully.

"Nah," Domhnall says, and Oscar blows out a puff of air, closes his eyes, puts his hand over his face.

"No, you're right, he'll never go for it," he agrees, and prepares himself for six months of utter fucking pining disaster, because he already knows he's in love but fuck, _fuck_ , he's so fucked.

 

It's fine, it all goes  _fine_ , because Oscar isn't a professional actor for nothing and he can hide a broken heart with shining eyes and easy laughter. And then Rian gets bitten by an idea, decides to try rewriting for the gays-in-Star-Wars arc anyway, and that's how Oscar finds himself on set one day leaning up against an X-Wing and waiting patiently while makeup do something to his mouth to, quote, "make it even more kissable". 

It's not with John, obviously, because the Finn/Rey romance is polling well with everyone except racists and the fans who are way too deeply invested in Kylo Ren to be healthy, so Oscar glances over at Tosin, raises an eyebrow.

"Alright, bruv?" Tosin asks, cracks a grin and winks meaningfully, and Oscar wonders when it is that his life became all about kissing appallingly pretty English actors, and then they're working out the beat and the flow of the scene, stepping it out, waiting for Rian to call  _action_.

The lights are hot when they finally get started, and Oscar lets himself sink into it. The scene's nothing huge - a lingering smile, a line of dialogue, a kiss, Jessika Pava interrupting them with a deadpan line that's going to get laughter for sure, ticks all round on the 'diversity' card - but Oscar works for it anyway, leans into the kiss again and again, looks at Tosin like he thinks Poe must look at everyone he's inconveniently in love with.

"Oscar!" Rian shouts after the third take, "you're biting your lip, that wasn't in the script," and Oscar flushes with embarrassment, starts to apologize. "No, it's good, we'll work with it, do it again," Rian says thoughtfully once he's taken a look at the raw shot, and somewhere deep in his soul, Oscar braces for eight months later when he will inevitably see this fucking gif set everywhere until he can't forget what his face looks like when he's falling for someone.

 

Filming the scene is _easy_ , though, light-hearted and professional, and Tosin claps him on the shoulder when they're done, drawls "hey, good work, buddy," in his best imitation of Oscar's accent. Oscar laughs, lets his eyes crinkle at the corners, runs his hand through his hair to ruin the carefully set poster boy waves since he's done with shooting for the day.

"Yeah," he agrees, "yeah, what a hardship, we're gonna make a lot of nerds angry."

He's back in his trailer that evening, slowly drinking a beer and going over the scripts for the next day, when John comes in without knocking, takes Oscar's face in his hands and kisses him long and intent. This isn't a screen kiss, something that looks good for the cameras and has as little emotion or intent behind it as possible. It's something that knocks the air right out of Oscar's lungs, makes him shiver into it and his eyes shudder closed, and John backs him up against the tiny kitchenette bench, keeps kissing until Oscar can't breathe for it. He fumbles his beer onto the bench, drops the script in a flutter of pages, fists his hand in John's shirt and tugs him closer, and John makes a tiny pleased noise before pulling away.

"Okay," he says, "good, that's- yeah, good," and leaves like nothing happened. Oscar just blinks for a couple of seconds, trying to parse what exactly  _did_ happen, and he has to admit, it takes him a moment to figure out.

It's to do with the thing with Tosin, that much is clear, but it doesn't feel as clear-cut as jealousy. Not, he thinks, that he's completely sure - it's not _jealousy_ he feels about John and Daisy either but something much more complicated, something that ties his feelings about John and his feelings about Daisy into his feelings about John-and-Daisy, the pair of them working together to just basically take Oscar apart. If Oscar's being honest, it feels closer to John _laying claim_ , like after a scene where Oscar's flirted harmlessly with someone else John just has to remind him that he's theirs.

He  _is_ theirs, and all his professional resolve crumbles in a moment. He leans back against the bench, takes a long sip of his beer, wonders what exactly any of them are aiming at here.

 

The rest of filming, nothing at all happens. Oscar thinks he maybe catches John and Daisy looking thoughtfully at him once or twice, but they stop crashing his trailer. He tries not to be upset about it, and fails. Even Domhnall's unilaterally called a stop to the 'benefits' section of their friendship, apparently on the basis that Oscar is well-fucked by his own emotions and doesn't need the added complications of sleeping with someone else on this project. It's a sensible decision, of course it is, but Jesus, Oscar's horribly sexually frustrated, especially when he catches scenes between John and Daisy, their crackling sexual chemistry uncontained and making his skin prickle with wanting.

Added to that is the inconvenient fact that he appears to still be suffering heartbreak over these children, and he's spending way too long smoking cigarettes and trying not to think about exactly the way they'd kissed him. It doesn't work, nothing works, and by the time they finish filming and he gets all too brief a respite before the premiere and, fucking Christ, another six months of worldwide press junkets, he feels wrecked.

He wonders if he can call in sick to the London premiere, and of course that's ridiculous. He pulls himself together, puts on a very nice suit, slides into the limo waiting outside his house.

"Hi," Daisy says, "you know, we figured out you've been avoiding us."

It is a  _frankly outrageous_ claim, and also one that happens to be true. Oscar blinks at them both, sits back in the leather seat.

"So you ambushed me in the limo to the premiere?" he asks, too tired to feign any outrage, and John laughs.

"Love," he says, "we think you've got this all wrong."

"Yeah," Daisy agrees. "We thought, perhaps, that we'd scared you off."

"And  _then_ we thought," John continues, "that you didn't want to do anything about it during filming. And fair enough, right? It might ruin your  _energy_ , or something." He says the last sentence in an exaggerated LA accent, smirks a little. "We get it. Didn't want to ruin the dynamic. It's not like us, where, y'know, Finn and Rey translated pretty well. But."

"We thought we'd wait," Daisy says very easily. "Until filming was over. And try again."

"Filming's-" Oscar starts, has to swallow. His mouth is dry. "Filming's over."

"Yeah," John agrees. "Yeah, love, it is. So. Here we are."

"You-"

"Yeah," Daisy says, before Oscar even has to ask.  _You really want me?_ "Yeah, we really do." Oscar stares at her for a second, and she slides her hand into John's, looking nervous for the first time.

"We're going to the premiere," Oscar says. "We- we're going to a  _worldwide filmed premiere_ , and we'll be in public for the next, like,  _seven hours_ , and Jesus  _Christ_ , do you know how much I have  _pined_ , and you spring this on me when I can't- oh my god, you're cruel, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to me, _fuck_."

"Yeah," Daisy grins again, looking cheeky. "We, uh. Domhnall says he'll see us there, and also that this was totally his idea."

"Figures," Oscar mutters, and looks at them both again, and comes to a terribly reckless decision. "Fuck it, you're not wearing dark lipstick, get over here."

"We-" Daisy murmurs, and it's John who finishes the sentence, his mouth excruciatingly close to Oscar's.

"We were hoping," he says, bites his lip, "that you would say that."

They're late to the premiere. 

"Oh," Oscar says on the red carpet, leaning into John and Daisy in a way that is far, far too intimate, "you know how it is, we were in the middle of something in the car that we couldn't quite finish," and bites his lip, lets his eyes sparkle, and every reporter laughs at the obvious joke that is Oscar gloriously, absolutely not lying at all.

 


End file.
